


A Field of Blue

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gift Giving, M/M, Pining, Shyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fenris finds a little painting in the Hightown market, he immediately thinks of Anders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Field of Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Domina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/gifts).



> Domina, thank you for helping me celebrate my one year in the Dragon Age fandom. You are truly a shining light in every respect.

When he sees it, he knows who it is for.  

 

The little picture is propped up on the side of the merchants stall, the frame chipped and dusty.  Hawke is haggling with the merchant, who glares and rolls her eyes, puts her hands on her hips.  Nobody is watching, and Fenris considers for a moment before he asks, “How much for this?”

 

The Kirkwall sun beats down harshly, and the red cobbles underfoot radiate heat.  The very air seems viscous, thick as amber as both the merchant and Hawke look at him.  He stares back at the merchant, who frowns slightly then averts her eyes.  “Two bits,” she tells him promptly, returning her gaze to Hawke, immediately dismissing him.  Fenris smiles slightly and digs the money out, placing it on the wide wooden bench of the stall.  Hawke grins at him quickly, then returns to the bargaining.  Fenris looks around himself at the people shuffling through the busy marketplace and drops the little painting into his pack.

 

The Chantry looms overhead, louring, grotesque in the brazenness of its authority.  The sun seems caught on the topmost spire, pinned like an insect to the washed-out blue of the noontime sky.  Kirkwall had seemed but a waystation once.  He’d never thought he’d remain in the same place for so long, never thought he could want to remain.  But he has, and for all he tells himself it is easier to let Danarius come to him, that is not the full reason.  He touches the little picture inside his pack, feels the outline of the frame as he watches a bird hop and flap lazily out of their path.  Isabela turns her head, grins at him from over her shoulder, but says nothing.  Fenris feels the sweat trickle down the back of his neck, the slow ebb of the lyrium under his skin, and wishes for Anders.  The mages presence has always been a strange comfort to the cyclic torment of his brands, diminishing their flaring pain to a deep, slow ache, rather like a fading bruise.  Perhaps it is because of his aptitude for healing - Fenris knows nothing of it, and cares less.  What does it matter, but that it alleviates the pain?  He only knows that when Anders touches him - hesitant, eyes wide with both wonder and caution - he can bear it.  

 

Idly, his mind wanders as he strides the well worn paths of Lowtown, letting Hawke lead.  They very rarely speak; Anders seems not to want to, and Fenris is too uncertain of what they have to test him.  Gesture speaks for them, in a way that teeth and tongue and lips could never do - the arch of neck, smooth stroke of palm along naked back, the curl of toes.  Perhaps speaking will come.  Fenris has the locations of each scar on Anders’ body memorised now, he knows which ones bring a frown of consternation to Anders’ face, or a small shrug or wry, abashed smile.  He could trace each outline in his sleep.  Every single one is precious to him - deep, livid violet of the scar over Anders’ heart, the ragged white-on-white of the lines which criss-cross his back.  Every single one has brought them closer to each other.

 

But there is not room for beauty; not here, not now.  Even now, his thoughts skirt around the word, desperate not to hear as Danarius hisses it -  _ beautiful, my beautiful pet _ \- into the ear of his mind.  He feels a cringe of disgust within himself, and sets his jaw.  Outside, he’s always outside now, and that is safer, better for everyone.  It’s better he not get too close.  And yet he cannot help it - he wants this ragged beauty of Anders’, the jagged feel of scars and sharp thrust of bones under skin, the reality of it.  It’s the reality, the bent and brokenness, the rage and shame of the mage, it’s that which makes him more than beautiful in Fenris’ eyes.

 

But there is comfort, yes, in this kind of desire, this slow unmoulding of a need too great for words. This strange emotion, this comfort/discomfort that they seem to take from each other, it has taken form slowly, like an artist rendering form from painted daubings.  The light and shade, the detail of it, that is strange and wondrous, but when taken as a whole, ah, that is where the real miracle is.  And Maker knows, did he not fight it tooth and nail once he realised what it was, this unburdening, this fantasy of acceptance, this slow, brutal arrow of love?  How could Anders want him in return?  He is broken, he knows it.  Little, and broken inside, harsh and bitter - but strong.  Maybe strong enough for them both.

 

In the end, he does not know how to do it.  Before he loses his courage entirely, he sets off, trying not to think too much about what it is he will do when he reaches his destination.  Better to act, not to think - instinct is what has kept him breathing all this time, it should serve him in this as well.  It is late, so late that the black water of the night-harbour is beginning to fade to grey when Fenris pads down the stony path that will lead him to the clinic.  The lamp is out, the way is dark and musty, but Fenris knows the path - would know it blindfolded.  He knocks softly at the great door, and Anders opens it swiftly, as if he has been waiting just inside, smiling at him as he opens the door only wide enough to admit Fenris.  Once he is inside, he stands awkward for a moment before he thrusts the little painting forward.  “Here,” he says gruffly, and when Anders takes it, Fenris wipes his hand on his jerkin and looks away, certain that Anders will laugh at him.

 

But there is no sound apart from their breathing.  Swiftly, Fenris looks at Anders face, sees he is studying the picture, holding it in two hands with a strange expression on his face.  He watches, wanting to speak, unable to break the silence, miserable and furious with himself for thinking such a gift would be welcome, accepted.  Finally, Anders looks up.  His eyes are bright in the low light, and when he blinks, a tear catches in his lower lashes.  “Is… is this for me?” he asks, and Fenris nods.  Anders echoes the gesture, looking almost as if he cannot believe it, and looks at the painting again, clutching it so tightly, his knuckles white, and Fenris fears for the integrity of the frame.

 

“It’s… it’s not…” he begins, trying in some way to justify the smallness of the gesture, to balance it somehow against the weight of the emotions in his heart, when Anders sighs harshly and steps forward.  He puts one hand gently against Fenris’ cheek, curling his fingers around to stroke at the back of Fenris’ ear, and Fenris leans into the gesture, his hands going to Anders’ waist.  Anders puts their foreheads together and whispers, “It’s lovely.  It looks like freedom.”

 

They stand there for a moment longer, caught in the balance of time.  Then Anders stretches the hand holding the picture out, toward a nearby shelf where he balances it on its frame, leaning it up against a bottle of distillate.  He looks at it there for a moment as Fenris watches him, then looks back to Fenris.  And the little white bird in it’s strangely ornate frame looks down from where it soars against a field of unbroken blue as Anders kisses him gently, the dry feeling of his lips, the smell of his skin like elfroot, like life itself against Fenris’ skin.   _ Like freedom _ , Fenris thinks, and holds Anders tighter.


End file.
